


Composure

by Yuutfa



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Angst, M/M, Old Age, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuutfa/pseuds/Yuutfa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If Beethoven could compose beautiful symphonies while completely deaf, then he very well could compose a two minute song of gratitude for Aoba.</i>
</p><p>In which Clear composes one final song for his most beloved person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composure

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for [shakespearevillain](shakespearevillain.tumblr.com) on tumblr who asked for Clear composing a song for Aoba and heartbreak. This is my first fic for the DMMd fandom; I hope you enjoy it!

In the rays of the late afternoon sun, one could hear the sound of a voice floating from the rooftops. Though the words were thin and almost indecipherable, they were sung with such care and love that those who stopped to listen would find themselves spellbound. Children and adults alike stopped beside the depilated buildings to crane their heads upwards, desperate to hear more of the voice.

And just as suddenly as the song had began, it would stop. Uncomfortable silence would take its place, leaving the listener disconcerted and uneasy.

They always left soon after that, with uncertain footfalls and the half finished melody playing in their mind. Why did the song suddenly stop? How did the rest of the melody go? Did the singer just stop caring? Unanswered questions would repeat over and over as they walked away.

But the discomfort never lasted for long. Within ten minutes, the voice was replaced by thoughts of life's frivolities and necessities.

If they had stepped back, bore the glare of the summer sun, and peered closely, they would see the figure of a man sitting amongst the worn orange shingles.

With his back obscured in shadow, the only thing the listener would've seen was the vinyl umbrella held above his head. Fractured light fell upon his crown, painting oranges and yellows on a canvas of silver hair. And if the singer felt so inclined, he would twist the umbrella playfully, allowing the listener to catch a glimpse of yellow wrapped around his neck.  

No one ever looked up.

The singer would remain on the roof, forgotten.

And the melody would start again.

 

~*~

 

Clear scratched the back of his head and folded his arms, staring down at the notebook on his thigh with a frown. With his trusty umbrella swapped in favour of a pen —currently tucked behind his ear for easy access, he found himself in a bit of a pickle.

Two weeks and all he had were seven lousy notes.

Composing sure was difficult when one was partially deaf...

No, no, no! Clear shook his head forcefully, almost dislodging the pen in the process. He couldn't afford to think so negatively. If Beethoven could compose beautiful symphonies while completely deaf, then he very well could compose a two minute song of gratitude for Aoba.

He stilled, heart warming at the thought of his lover.

This light feeling that made his lips twitch into a smile and happiness overflow, was this what it meant to be in love? Yes, it had to be. On that, he was certain. Though Clear had no other means of comparison, he was certain this warmth was one of love.

It was most definitely not the 36°C weather. Of course not.

He removed the pen from behind his ear, and his hand hovered over the page.

"G major key, G, F, G, F, E, G, F?" Clear's voice lifted in question at the end.   

His notebook was riddled with so many scratched out notes and revisions that it was growing difficult to read. Was the last note an F or an A? Countless bars had been crossed out, and a few had been extended in order to scribble down bursts of inspiration before being scrapped once more. Was he even in treble clef anymore?

A part of him felt a little ashamed. He was created to sing; arranging a series of sounds into a pleasing manner should've been child's play. The Jellyfish Song had been composed in a matter of minutes. So why was this proving to be such a challenge?

Maybe it was the subject matter. After all, he was composing a song for Aoba. If it wasn't absolutely perfect, he would never forgive himself.

Closing his eyes, Clear inhaled deep and relaxed his shoulders. He needed to empty his mind of distractions if he was going to do this.

"Alright," he said with renewed vigour. "From the top."

 

~*~

 

Clear made sure to close the door gently behind him when he entered the house. In the waning light of dusk, the front room was bathed in a warm glow. He needn't turn on a light, not just yet; it seemed that he had been out later than he thought.

"Aoba-san, I'm home!" he called as he removed his boots.

There was a moment's pause before the sound of shuffling took its place. A head of grey popped out from around the corner.

"Welcome home, Clear."

Clear did his best to return the smile; it was weaker than he would've liked. "Thank you."

The man that stood before him was not the same one he met fifty years ago. Hair that once fell past the shoulder blades now stopped at his ears, and eyes that were once the colour of honey were now dull amber. Time had aged Aoba, as it did with all living things.

While Clear had knew and accepted this, it did nothing to lessen the pain. If anything, it only made it worse, only solidified the difference between man and machine.

 "So where did you go?"

Clear started. "I was watching the clouds," he half-lied as he straightened his boots at the doorstep. "The weather was really pleasant today. You should join me next time, Aoba-san."

"Maybe on a milder day," Aoba said. "I think if I go out during this summer heat, I'll just fall asleep. Either that or pass out," he added as an afterthought. Catching Clear's frown, Aoba swiftly changed topics. "You were on the rooftops, weren't you? I hope you didn't dislodge any tiles again."

Clear released a huff of indignation. "How mean! That only happened once!"

Aoba laughed and shook his head. "And that was once too many. Come on in and sit down, dinner is almost ready."

Clear almost sighed in relief when Aoba re-entered the kitchen.

But then—

"No, wait, Aoba-san, let me help! You might hurt your hip again!"

 

~*~

 

He supposed that his desperation to finish the song stemmed from Aoba's declining health. The battery on Aoba's biological clock was draining fast, and there was nothing Clear could do to fix it. Periods of sleep were longer, fatigue and weariness became commonplace, and each day, Clear felt Aoba slip away from him a little more.

Despite the constant reassurances that he was fine, they both knew it was a lie; it would only be a matter of time before Clear was alone once more.

The song was completed on a rainy autumn day.

Raindrops splattered on the transparent surface of the vinyl umbrella, creating a polka dot collage of greys and blues. Water saturated the exposed edges of his coat, and his shoes slid off the smooth surface of clay; if he had stood, he would've surely slipped.

He paid it little mind. Balancing the umbrella in the crook of his shoulder, he silently thanked the gods for sparing him the wind and stared at his notebook. It had taken him two, almost three, months, but finally, he was done.

Now he just needed to sing this to Aoba.

Clear felt his breath catch. Aoba.

Oh God, how could he be so stupid to leave the house on a rainy day?

Clear's body lurched as he rose to his feet; boots struggled to find purchase on slick tiles. For a moment, the world seemed to tip sideways. Instinct kicked in before thought; Clear widened his stance, lowered his centre of gravity, and regained his balance.

Had he been a second slower, he would've fallen off completely.

The umbrella had been forgone in his brief struggle, and his notebook was shoved unceremoniously into his pocket. He wasn't too concerned about the umbrella; it could be replaced. He had more important matters at hand.

Straightening himself and bearing the cold rain on his skin, Clear manoeuvred his way through the narrow rooftops gaps and headed towards home.   

 

~*~

 

"Aoba-san!"

No response.

Clear rounded the corner and into the living room, ready to call out again.

"Aoba-sa—!"

His voice stopped in his throat, relief warmed him from inside out. Sitting in the worn wicker sofa with an open book in his lap, Aoba opened his eyes with a few slow blinks. Clear breathed a sigh. Oh thank goodness, Aoba was alright.

Amber lifted to meet pink, slowly, carefully. "What is it Clear? Aoba yawned and rubbed at his eyes. "Whoa, what happened to you?"

Clear felt moisture building from behind his eyes. The sound of Aoba's voice was just too much. If he hadn't come home, if he hadn't called out, would Aoba have woken up?

"I…" Clear stopped to swallow his grief and tried again. "I remembered that your joints hurt during rainy days, so I rushed right home," he said with a smile.

Aoba's brow furrowed. "You didn't have to rush. I'm not going to break if you just leave me for a few hours, you know."

Yes he would, and they both knew it.

Clear's smile turned sheepish. "Ah, sorry. I guess I just panicked."

Aoba rolled his eyes. "You did. Jeez, you're soaking wet and your coat's covered in dirt." He began to rise to his feet.

"Ah! There's no need for you to get up, Aoba-san! I'll go and take off my shoes and coat." Clear paused, a bubble of hesitation swelled in the pit of his stomach. Well, it was now or never. "When I return, may I sing for you? I wrote a new song that I want you to hear."

Aoba blinked. His previous ire vanished from his face at the humble request. "Sure," he replied after a beat. "I'd love to hear it."

Clear nodded and squared his shoulders. "Then I'll be right back."

It took him less than five minutes to throw his boots down and to strip his coat off. His shirt underneath was damp, but his coat had absorbed most of the water. Aoba couldn't complain too much if he got the sofa wet.

Clear doubted that Aoba would complain at all.

His hands tightened into fists, water dripped from the fabric of his gloves and to the wood panels below.

A deep inhale. If he was going to sing the perfect song for Aoba, then he mustn't cry.

"Clear?"

And exhale.

"Coming," he replied. "I'm sorry for making you wait," he said as he entered the living room a second time.

Aoba shook his head and shuffled to make room for Clear. "It's fine."

Clear's eyes scanned the floor, unable meet Aoba's gaze directly. "Aoba-san, could you… could you rest your head on my shoulder as I sing?"

He wanted to feel the warmth of his most important person as they faded away.

Thankfully, Aoba didn't question him. A solid weight fell upon Clear's left shoulder.

Had Aoba always been so light? So small and frail?

"I'm going to sing now."

"Go right ahead."

Clear lifted his head to idly brush Aoba's hair as he sang the first note. A clear G like he had practiced, then to an F, and to a G… Not once did he stop singing, not even when Aoba's eyes closed and his breathing began to slow.

When Aoba's hold on his book loosened, Clear almost faltered, but he recovered soon enough. This song needed to be perfect; he needed to see it through to the end. He owed Aoba that much.

As the final note left his lips, Clear's hand stilled and lingered on Aoba's head.

All he could hear was the gentle pitter-patter of the rain outside. The weight on his shoulder had grown heavy. Aoba's chest had stopped moving.

It was over.

"Goodnight, Aoba-san."

**Author's Note:**

> And for those curious as to how the song might sound, [here's](http://www.noteflight.com/scores/view/74a94bd6ee0d686e8131651bf320551b3c436ac5) a version Shakespearevillain composed~


End file.
